


Devouring Time

by dechagny



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-War, Romantic Comedy Elements, The Captain is Alive, The Captain is Gay (Ghosts TV 2019), Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29472810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dechagny/pseuds/dechagny
Summary: The Captain is a horologist with a strange affinity for the clocks he repairs and an even stranger power. Resigned to being the local outcast, he knows the townsfolk are wary of him, and he doesn't blame them - he's wary of himself too, and he has the context for his odd behaviour. But when Havers, a charming young photographer with an open mind, arrives with a pocket watch that needs repairing, The Captain starts to wonder if he can change his reputation, and use his power to find happiness instead of hiding behind his clocks.
Relationships: The Captain/Lieutenant Havers (Ghosts TV 2019)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	Devouring Time

_Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,_  
 _And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;_  
 _Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,_  
 _And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;_  
 _Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st,_  
 _And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,_  
 _To the wide world and all her fading sweets;_  
 _But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:_  
 _O! carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,_  
 _Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;_  
 _Him in thy course untainted do allow_  
 _For beauty's pattern to succeeding men._  
_Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,_  
_My love shall in my verse ever live young.  
  
\- _Sonnet 19, William Shakespeare (1609)

* * *

There is something unduly satisfying about gears and cogs. They always know in which direction they’re supposed to turn, and they know what their role is in the intricate system of their mechanical creation. They revolve around each other in graceful harmony, providing a rotational force that makes the clock tick and the child’s toy soldier march forward.

They’ve been used to calculate astronomical positions, transport grain and water in mills, generate power, and have kept the human race moving along in orderly fashion.

Gears are designed to fit neatly together and turn at a certain speed. They are a visual representation of order, efficiency, and simplicity. They were designed to make sense, and they do make sense…except for when they don’t.

It wasn’t usually the fault of the cogs. Sure, they could come to him stuck, bent, and out of shape, needing a gentle hand to push them back into place and send them back on their pre-destined, never-ending path. Sometimes they had rusted from improper maintenance, and more often than he would like, he needed to replace the offending cog altogether. But those were to be expected and didn’t even remotely touch on why cogs and gears could not make sense to The Captain.

In fact, sometimes, the lawlessness and lack of understanding around it frightened him, and people always stay away from the things they’re frightened of. Which, he supposed, was why the people in his small area of the city stayed away from him, up until they needed their watch fixed. They didn’t understand him, and The Captain couldn’t blame them when they whispered to each other in the street when he walked by or crossed the road to avoid passing in front of his shop. After all, he didn’t understand him himself, so how could he expect his neighbours to do so?

No-one knew his name either. They didn’t stay long enough to ask – they just dropped off their clock or watch with a nervous glance and left again, dreading the fact they’d have to come back to collect it later. Everyone called him The Captain because he was so rigid, so disciplined, so orderly. Even though it was just him in that dark room, he ran a tight ship where everything ran exactly to time. _Captain_ seemed to suit him, so that’s what they called him. And he didn’t mind that – he even called himself The Captain now – because just like a well-placed cog, that was his role in the city’s mechanics.

He was alone, and they were wary. That had been the way for twenty years or more.

They didn’t like how The Captain always seemed to know just a little too much about them when they’d never spoken beyond a ‘could you fix this, please?’ They didn’t like that he talked to the cogs whilst he worked. They didn’t like how many clocks were mounted on the wall, ticking in unison to create an unnervingly synchronised chorus. Perhaps it felt too much like being assaulted with the knowledge that time keeps moving on. They age with each movement of the second hand, and anyone who could withstand the pressure was to be feared.

Every clock in the shop was meticulously cared for. As soon as one began to move out of time, or fell even a second behind, The Captain was carefully removing it from its hook to expose its cogs on his neat workbench, bending over it with a well-trained eye.

He had a different relationship to time than everyone else, and he’d known it since his father had taught him how to repair his first pocket watch.

“Each clock and watch have a pulse, just like you and I do,” his father had said, beckoning an eight-year-old Captain to his workbench. “And sometimes, the pulse gets weak. What do you think is wrong with this one?” he asked, carefully handing the silver watch and chain to his son.

The Captain turned it over in his hands. He remembered it was cold to the touch, like the first frost of the year, and had a distinctly metallic scent marred with the musty fragrance of the pocket of the gentleman who owned it. It was heavy too; he remembered that because he was afraid to drop it and dent it on the hardwood floor. If he did, his father would give him such a beating ’round the ears.

He held it up to his ear, eyeing his father who was waiting with quiet interest. The pulse of this watch was far slower than it should have been – the noise came every six seconds and was so frail that he couldn’t be entirely sure that he’d heard it at all. Sucking on his bottom lip, The Captain opened the cover to inspect the clock face, but it was just as he had expected. The second hand was dragging itself around, losing time by a fraction of a second with each movement – this watch had been slow for quite some time, further highlighted by the hour and minute hands which seemed to suggest it was still night.

Tentatively, with all the reverence he saw his father handling watches with, The Captain turned the crown clockwise, only to find that it wouldn’t turn any further. Satisfied with his assessment, he placed it back in his father’s waiting hand.

“It has been overwound,” The Captain announced, “and has gotten stuck.”

His father pressed his lips together, so his dark moustache swamped his mouth and tutted. Placing the watch back on the workbench, he shook his head. “No, for a watch cannot be overwound,” he told him, picking up a flat, sharp instrument and tapping The Captain on the nose with it.

The Captain wrinkled his face and stepped closer to the bench, peering over as his father began to use the tool to force the glass front of the watch off.

“A watch’s crown can only be turned so far,” his father explained patiently as he removed the hands with his own steady one and a tool that reminded The Captain of the legs of a frog—delicate but strong pincers grasping the hands so they could be pulled off in one judicious swoop. “By nature, it can only go as far as it needs to go. No, the problem here is that the watch has never been cleaned. It needs to be pulled apart, cleaned, oiled, and lubricated, and put together again. It’s really that simple.”

And that was when his father took up the flat tool again and peeled off the back as easily as if he were peeling an apple to expose its wondrous maze of cogs and gears. He was hooked from that moment – staring in opened mouth wonder as his father’s deft fingers began to twizzle the screws out of the casing with a thin screwdriver. All the while, one cog kept turning in its spot, spinning faster than the others, sounding like the rubbing legs of a grasshopper or the hovering wings of a dragonfly.

He removed the casing, the dial, and pulled off the gears with a pair of thin tweezers, placing all the pieces and screws in a neat row in the order he’d taken them off in on the table, lining them all up carefully, so he didn’t lose them. So that he could find them all in an order that made sense when it came to reassembly.

All in all, the whole process of disassembly, cleaning, and reassembly took three hours, fourteen minutes, and eighteen seconds. A fact that The Captain remembered well due to the three strident chimes that ran through the shop and his own careful timekeeping.

Through the whole process, The Captain’s father explained what he was doing, why he was doing it, and which tools he was using, and The Captain soaked it all in like a sponge in a bucket. He didn’t even notice when his feet became tired, he was so engrossed in the calming, repetitive action.

“Reassembly is the most time-consuming part,” his father had said, moving at half the speed at which he disassembled the accessory. “This is the part where most of your accidents happen, and, unfortunately, my boy, when you come to do this yourself, you will break many of your first watches. It is part of the learning process.”

The Captain had pouted at this. The idea that he could break something so beautiful and so orderly felt wrong. Not to mention how furious the customers would be when they came to find their beloved watch had been damaged beyond repair by the very person they had expected to care for it.

“But what about-“

His father chuckled, sensing his son’s anxiety, and took his eyes off the timepiece to flash a reassuring smile at him. “Don’t panic. You’ll practice on some of the old watches we have in the back.”

Sated, The Captain found himself relaxing into the mechanics again, his father once again discussing the pulse of the watch as a man possessed, but glad to be. “You have to listen closely to the heartbeat,” he said. “Every watch contains the heartbeat of its owner, and you can learn a lot from that when you touch these cogs with an open and understanding mind. It can transport you to another time, all that history – so, you must be careful. Treat every watch and every person with the utmost respect.”

Looking back on it now, it was apparent what his father was trying to say. He had known. Which somehow felt worse – probably because he didn’t say more than that. He could’ve explained, and yet he chose not to, leaving The Captain feeling lost and bewildered, even after all these years.

With the morning sun warming the pavements of Hertfordshire, The Captain unlocked Prestige Cog and Watch Repair’s doors, turning the yellowing Closed sign hanging in the window to Open. A woman passed with her son as they walked to school, and The Captain smiled at them, his fingers twitching in a hopeful wave, only for her to look at him with a suspicious sneer and pull the boy to the other side of the road.

Disappointed but not surprised, The Captain turned away from the window and set about his day as usual – dusting all thirty-five clocks that lined the walls, taking extra care around the faces, and any intricate carvings weaved into the wood.

He always loved how the scent of warm wood permeated the room, getting stronger throughout the day as the sunlight caressed the clocks’ bodies, especially that of the oak grandfather clock people seemed drawn towards. Probably because it was so imposing, you couldn’t help but stare and get lost in its pendulum swings.

The first customer of the day walked in at nine-thirty, sending the bell on the top of the door trilling and The Captain turning to the workbench with a smile he hoped looked disarming.

“Good morning,” he said, watching the man with the neat moustache, much like his own, approach the desk with faltering steps and eyes that didn’t know where to look. He must have been several years older than The Captain at the very least, but he had a youthful air that came from the way he held himself when he walked, and in the brightness of his complexion under his buttercup tie. “What can I do for you?”

The gentleman swallowed, not quite able to meet The Captain’s eyes as he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and removed a pocket watch, placing it carefully on the bench instead of in The Captain’s open hand.

“I would like this cleaned, please,” he said, squaring his shoulders and letting his indigo stare settle on the wall behind The Captain, searching the wallpaper of its details. “It was my father’s…given to him by my mother, and they’re both gone now, so be careful with it. I’d like to give it to my son one day.”

A rosewater blush crept across the man’s cheeks, but The Captain pretended he hadn’t noticed it. He was used to people saying too much about their sentimental items and the embarrassment that ate them away when they realised they’d said too much. He could never tell whether the words were spilt because customers were afraid of him and the nerves were too much, or because they desperately wanted to mask the sounds of the ticking clocks.

“Certainly, Sir,” The Captain said easily. “You may collect it tomorrow afternoon after two. May I have your name for the ledger?” he added, sliding out a leatherbound book from under the bench and heavy fountain pen.

“Arthur,” the man said, clearing his throat as he reluctantly choked out the rest. “Arthur Button.”

After he’d scratched his name into the book and the make of the watch – a George Prior, London watch with a unique tortoiseshell casing – The Captain wrote out a little receipt, holding it out to Arthur with an encouraging smile. “A pound and a shilling upon collection.”

When Arthur didn’t take it, The Captain slid it across the bench instead where Arthur scooped it up and placed it in his jacket pocket. He left with a solid nod and a tight ‘thank you,’ practically running out the door lest someone spotted him there and avoided him too.

All was quiet again and was so for the rest of the day – only one woman with a severe face and prematurely greying hair came in to collect her mantel clock. She paid and left with a polite, strained conversation, her eyes darting to the windows the whole time.

After closing for lunch – yesterday’s leftovers of beef, potatoes, and carrots – he set about working on Arthur Button’s pocket watch, hunched over the workbench with a soothed soul. He peeled off the front casing with the cogs’ heartbeat already ringing in his ears. They suctioned him in with his rhythmic humming, and he hadn’t even removed the hands yet. Yes, this was a watch that wanted him, and it would be easy to tap into the thundering heartbeat…he could already tell this was one he wouldn’t be able to ignore.

The Captain couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it happened – he never could when it was the watch of a stranger. It was much easier to control when it was one of his own. Whenever it did happen with an unfamiliar timepiece, his mind was so clear that it was like waking up after a nap he hadn’t realised he’d taken—one moment here, the next, _there_.

This time, when his thoughts returned to him, he found himself in the corridor of a large house he didn’t recognise with the metallic tang of iron coating his tongue and the back of this throat, and nausea welling in the pit of his stomach. It was hard for his eyes to adjust – he had gone from the vividness of Prestige Cog and Watch Repair to the night-time dullness of…whatever house this was.

Slipping the watch into his pocket, The Captain waited with bated breath, his ears attuned to any and all sounds. The hushed murmurs of male voices in the room behind him, and the quick footsteps on the stairs somewhere to his right. The settling of the floorboards where he’d silently materialised. The whistle of the wind running through the cracks in the windowpane.

With the footsteps coming closer, he ducked into an empty room before he was seen, leaving the door open a crack to watch a woman walk by, her skirt dragging across the floor. She was humming something to herself, but her feet and the noise stopped a mere few footsteps away from The Captain’s spot. She leaned towards the door where the voices were, the floorboards creaking beneath her despite not moving her feet.

The Captain silently moved to the wall with his heart in his throat, pressing his ear flat against it, though it didn’t make the muffled noises any clearer. A barely audible voice. A groan. A bang against the wall.

“George?” said the woman, pushing on the door. There was a split second of silence before the shrieking began. “What on Earth is the meaning of this?!”

“Fanny, I can explain!” George stuttered, his voice punctuated with the echoes of bare feet slapping on the floor, and perhaps even the rustling of starched sheets.

“There can be no explanation for this perversion!” she said frantically. “The pair of you are dismissed,” she continued. “You’re no longer welcome here – just be glad I’m not calling the constabulary.”

Before anyone could leave the room, George’s voice came booming through the wall, telling whoever was there with them to stay. “This is my house,” he continued, “and I get to decide who does what around here, do you understand me, Fanny?”

The woman baulked; a variety of strangled noises coming from her throat. “Yes, well, look at where’s that got you,” she said pointedly. The Captain found himself holding his breath as the argument continued. “But if you’re going to take that attitude, perhaps I will tell the police about your immorality!”

“No, you won’t,” George answered. “Think of what it will do to Arthur if he finds out.”

“You should’ve thought about him before you…” her voice petered out to a frustrated, heartbroken sigh. “I will go to my grave before I let Arthur find out his father is a sodomite.”

The Captain stepped away from the wall like he’d been burned. The floor groaned under his feet as he slammed his hip into a dresser’s corner, wincing at the noise he’d made and the pain that travelled through his bones. But no-one in the next room gave any indication that they’d heard him.

“Yes, I fear you will,” George said, his voice a cold, level calm that made The Captain uneasy. “I’m sorry, darling.”

There was a grunt, a scuffle of feet, and a sharp scream that was muffled into nothing followed by a deafening silence that made The Captain press his ear firmer against the wall, hoping to catch every breath that followed. He could feel his heartbeat thundering like rain on a windowpane, the vibrations reverberating through his skull and tingling in his fingertips – burning like smouldering grass after a lightning strike.

“She fell, do you hear me?” George hissed, panic and guilt fizzing in his throat. “It was dark, and she tripped and fell…you understand?” There was no response that The Captain could hear, but there must have been one because a few seconds later, George was continuing with his rushed warnings. “I will tell Arthur about Fanny tomorrow…for now…we get dressed and we organise our stories, okay? We take this to our graves. Not only for our sakes but for Arthur’s too.”

Having heard enough, his stomach acid rapidly curdling his breakfast, The Captain took the watch from his pocket. The cool metal was a soothing presence in his hand as he tried to process what he’d heard, running his thumb carefully along the elegant grooves as he thought of home and its gorgeous orchestrations of twinkling clocks. There was a vague heaviness in the back of his head that plucked on his nerves like violin strings, letting out a melancholic song that sounded like one he’d always known. This story…this house…this poor woman…it was a story that felt familiar though he’d never been here before. He’d never met Arthur until today and he’d certainly not fixed this watch before either.

He always remembered every watch that passed through his doors which became whole again under his touch.

As the cogs grew warm under his touch, his vision became hazy, and his eyelids flickered to reveal the quiet comfort of Prestige. The house and its dark rooms and intrigues falling away but left to fester in The Captain’s head as he continued to take apart the watch.

Arthur returned at two on the dot the next day, his body as rigid as a pole as he took long strides over the threshold, barely able to look The Captain in the face and already put off by his long, unblinking stare.

The Captain knew too much and yet too little also. How old had Arthur been when his father had murdered his mother? Was he still in the dark about the truth? Would he know that even before the accident, his parents were just trying to protect their son in their own ways – though, of course, it was beneficial to George too? Was that messed up love something Arthur carried with him?

There were too many questions, but The Captain had promised himself a long time ago that he would never speak a word of anything he saw to others. He was one slip-up away from being sent to a madhouse…but sometimes, an allusion could be safely delivered.

“All cleaned and polished for you,” The Captain said, reaching under the desk for a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and string. “It’s a beautiful watch,” he added, smiling warmly to try and break Arthur’s wary scowl. “Lots of heart and soul went into making it…and I’m sure there’s a lot of heart and soul in your parents’ history too. They loved you very much.”

Arthur knitted his brows together, the scowl becoming a deep crack in the ivory of his features. It aged him in an instant. “Here’s your money,” he said coolly, throwing the coins on to the counter and snatching the package. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t speak of what you do not know and instead stuck to repairing watches in silence.”

This kind of response was not unusual – he probably heard it at least once a month on average, but still, the sting hurt as much as it always did. He was used to it, but it didn’t make it better.

“Of course,” he said, scooping the money from the table. “My apologies, sir. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

Walking backwards so as not to turn his back on the unnerving horologist, Arthur tucked the package into his jacket pocket. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he said, before leaping from his skin as he backed into a young man in a handsome brown suit trying to enter the shop. “Dear Lord,” he breathed, his eyes scanning the stranger and alighting on the watch in his hand.

“Mind the camera, my good fellow,” the young man laughed, his tone dripping with levity disguised as concern as he held up the Ensign Cameo in his other hand. He had short, cropped hair that looked like mahogany in the sun and a smooth, clean-shaven face that exposed the gentle curves of his jaw.

“If you’re going in there then you’ll have more to worry about than your camera,” Arthur spat, shooting a dirty look in The Captain’s direction, who was watching the unfolding scene with only the mildest of interest. “He’s got the Devil in him, that one. A most unnatural man.”

The Photographer glanced into the shop, making direct eye contact with The Captain – something that made time stand still for him – he couldn’t remember the last time someone met his eyes. Smiling kindly at The Captain, his cheeks dimpling, the stranger gave him a quick wink before turning back to Arthur.

“I think I’d like to make my own mind up about that if you don’t mind,” he said, the smile not leaving his face.

Arthur glanced between The Captain and the photographer with a snarl, letting his gaze comfortably sit on the stranger. He took a deep breath in through his nose and exhaled again sharply, shaking his shoulders. “Very well. Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you,” he said before skulking back into the street.

“What was his problem?” the photographer asked, bounding over to the counter, and putting his camera on the tabletop. It had barely a scratch on it and smelled of warm leather and well-loved metal.

Stranger than the kindness was the fact this man hadn’t heard the ghost stories about him. Which could only mean one thing…

“You’re not from around here, are you?” The Captain said, his smile beginning at the corner of his mouth. He enjoyed looking at the stranger – his face seemed warm and open, glowing with fresh possibility as he looked around at the clocks on the walls.

“Is it that obvious?” he said, pressing his lips together to contain his nervous laughter. “I’ve recently moved here from London. The quiet appealed to me…anyway, do people always talk about you like that?”

“I’m afraid so,” The Captain shrugged, his heart a light cloud as it occurred to him that this was the longest and most pleasant conversation he’d had with a customer since he was a child. “They don’t trust me.”

“But they still keep coming back to you to fix their timepieces?”

The Captain tilted his head, regarding the newcomer with a level of apprehension. This was it – his chance to finally make a good impression and make a friend—an exciting yet terrifying prospect, especially since he had no idea how to make it happen.

Don’t be weird. Don’t go on about the mechanics of a clock. Don’t mention _it_.

“They trust my ability to take care of their watches,” he explained, meeting the strangers’ gaze again. They were a deep chestnut brown that sparkled with curiosity, and The Captain found them as comforting as looking at the intricate workings of the inside of a watch. It was amazing what a shred of kindness could do. “But they don’t trust _me_.”

“Are they right not to?” he asked, still smiling.

“You’ll have to give me your watch so you can find out for yourself, remember?” The Captain said, feeling more comfortable on this familiar ground as he held out his hand.

“I’m looking forward to it.” The stranger’s smile broke into a large grin, and he had no qualms about dropping the broken silver watch straight into The Captain’s grasp. “It’s taken quite a beating,” he continued, watching The Captain examine the watch’s dented case, cracked glass, and broken minute hand. “It took a tumble from a tree.”

The Captain looked up sharply, breaking into a quiet a laugh as the man looked sheepishly around the room. “A tree?”

“I was sitting in a tree,” he explained, his face flushing scarlet. “In the park down the road. There’s a family of goldcrests living one of the trees, and I was in another, taking photos.”

He knew the park – the path was always clean, and children enjoyed running through the grass, and playing pretend whilst their parents meandered along looking for a shaded spot to sit under for their picnic of meats and freshly baked bread.

In fact, he himself had sat there on one of the iron benches, watching the birds go by on a few of his rare days off, reminiscing about the time’s he’d walked that exact path, hand in hand with his mother when the sun shone down and made everything feel brighter and lighter.

“Where’s Papa?” he’d said on one of these afternoons, turning his head in the direction they’d come. “He never walks with us.”

His mother, her blue eyes glinting melancholically in the light, squeezed his hand and turned her face towards the gentle wind, so the wispy blonde strands of her hair were swept away from her lashes and painted lips. “He’s a busy man, cherub, and sometimes he goes away during work,” she explained gently, a deep crease sitting above the bridge of her nose. “I think you’ll understand one day.”

The Captain shook the memory away and nodded, smiling to himself, and he turned the crown of the watch. “It’s a lovely park,” he said casually, “though perhaps better enjoyed from the ground.”

“Well, the watch certainly thought that was the case too,” the stranger mused. “Can it be fixed?”

“I can fix any watch,” The Captain assured him boldly, raising his chin. “But this one may take a few days longer than I’d like, and I may have to order in a new crystal disc to cover the dial.”

“Is that going to be expensive?”

“The whole repair shouldn’t cost more than two pounds.”

The stranger nodded, pulling on a ‘well, it can’t be helped’ grimace as he picked up his camera. “Okay. I’ll leave it in your capable hands,” he quipped, his cheek dimples giving him the impression of a figure made of clay with an accidental thumbprint left behind. “You’ve not given me a reason to mistrust you.”

The Captain nodded and placed the watch under the desk, bringing out his ledger with a smile that didn’t quite suit him, unaccustomed to the action. “May I take your name for my records?”

“It’s Havers,” he said, gently tapping his fingertips against his camera as he watched The Captain scratch his name into the page with a neat, legible hand. “William Havers. What can I call you in return?”

“Captain.”

“Captain what?”

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head with a crooked smile and flipping the cover of the ledger closed and handing him his receipt. “It’s just Captain.”

Havers regarded The Captain closely with a twisted mouth that puckered the inner edges of his lips, his eyes blinking slowly with all the lethargy of an indifferent housecat. The scrutiny made The Captain’s skin tingle and the downy hairs on his arms prickle.

“That’s not the name your parents gave you, surely?” Havers pointed out, holding his camera close to his side, running his fingers over its curves.

It was becoming harder for The Captain to breathe, or at least for him to do it subconsciously. His body was trembling under his highly starched clothes, unaccustomed to people being this interested in him. A little part of him wasn’t convinced his interest or kindness wasn’t part of a larger scheme or a long-running joke behind his back.

“No, it’s not,” he agreed, holding his tension in his shoulders, and pulling on a smile that was more mournful that he’d meant. He caught the smile in his reflection in the window and saw the ghostly smile of his mother in himself. “But it’s my name now, and that’s what matters.”

Havers nodded with a downcast gaze, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. “Well,” he chuckled finally, letting his features brighten with his smile, “if your refusal to tell me your real name is anything to go by, then perhaps the town is right not to trust you.” When The Captain didn’t say anything and just stared like a statue, Havers made a tentative retreat towards the door. “I’m looking forward to finding out more.”

He flashed another smile before slipping out into the street, looking towards the sky and its feathery clouds as he opened the front panel of his camera.

The Captain watched him wave and walk past the window out of sight with an unshrinking stare. The warm atmosphere Havers had leached into the air was sucked out of the shop as he disappeared, leaving no evidence that he’d been there at all, other than the watch and whatever secrets it held.


End file.
